Page 173 of Babies for the Big Shot

Sara looks at me, and for the first time in hours, I see her smile. There’s a quiet joy there, despite the exhaustion on her face.

She’s done this. We’ve done this. And everything that was out of my control has finally fallen into place.

I lean down, kissing her forehead, feeling the warmth of her skin, the weight of everything we’ve just experienced.

Finally, I feel my entire body loosen. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding myself together until it all released in one long exhale.

It’s a strange kind of relief, sweat-slicked, emotionally raw, and yet, somehow, the most overwhelming sense of peace I’ve ever felt.

We did it.

The room is filled with chaos, not just from the babies but from the nurses and doctors. I’m rooted to the spot, watching them move in tandem, their professional calm contrasting with the storm of emotions raging inside me.

I take Sara’s hand, squeezing it gently.

“They’re here,” I say, my voice rough, because suddenly I can’t find the right words for any of this. “And they are amazing.”

She’s exhausted, her eyes still wide with the wonder of it all, but there’s a smile on her lips, a smile that is mine to keep. For a moment, the world outside this sterile room, outside of our little universe of tiny, perfect beings, doesn’t matter.

I glance over at the nurses, trying to decipher what’s going on, who’s doing what. There are two little boys, both healthy, screaming their lungs out, and a tiny girl.

“Look at them,” Sara whispers, tears welling up in her eyes. “They’re perfect.”

I nod, my throat thick. “They’reeverything.”

The first nurse comes over to me with one of the boys, passing him to me as she smiles warmly. I freeze for a second, completely unsure of how to hold him. He’s so small.

I glance at Sara, who’s watching me with a proud smile.

“We need names,” she says, her voice suddenly light, as if the enormity of what just happened has lifted into something soft and almost whimsical.

I think about it for a moment, staring down at our son. Our first-born.A name, I think.A legacy.

I want it to be perfect, something that carries weight, like he does.

“Ethan,” I say, meeting Sara’s gaze. “Ethan James. What do you think?”

Sara nods, her smile growing even wider. “I love it. Ethan James Ashford.”

The nurse smiles at us before turning to take Ethan back, and I’m left holding our second son, a feeling of warmth spreading through me.

I’ve always been good at names. At numbers, deals, power moves. But this? This is something else.

“Samuel,” I say, the name feeling right on my tongue. “Samuel Cole Ashford.”

Sara nods again, her tears now falling freely. “They’re perfect,” she whispers, as if she’s still coming to terms with the fact thatthey’re real. Our sons.

But then my gaze shifts to our daughter, and everything seems to stop. She’s the last to be cleaned up and wrapped in a blanket, her tiny hand reaching out as though she’s ready to be held.

This one… this little girl, who will always have me wrapped around her finger.

“Lily,” I say softly, the name coming easily. “Lily Grace Ashford.”

Sara’s breath catches. “Lily,” she repeats, almost as if she’s savoring the sound of it. “Lily Grace.”

The nurse gives us a moment with our new daughter, and I sit down on the edge of the bed, holding her against me just like I had the others.

I’m finally starting to feel the enormity of this moment, of how my life has already changed in ways I couldn’t have anticipated.